


turn that frown upside down

by ayuminb



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (she gets some advice. and she's shook), (she just wants to turn that frown upside down), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Lady Escapes with Nymeria, Alternate Universe - Robb Wins, Ambiguous Allusions to Something, Background Characters - Some Starklings, Exhausted King Robb, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Post-Canon, Queen Jeyne Westerling, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 14:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14058735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: But Robb indulges her, and twines the fingers of their joined hands, bringing it up to press soft kisses to her knuckles, asking softly where they’re going.





	turn that frown upside down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bythunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bythunder/gifts).



Jeyne looks at her good-sister in shock, the heat climbing up her neck both in embarrassment and shameless curiosity. The Queen in the North and the Trident is well and truly intrigued.

 

Sansa lets go of her hand, leans back on the chair, grimacing in regret. “Forgive me, Jeyne, I did not mean to—”

 

“No, no!” She hastens to grab her hands back, smiling despite her burning cheeks. “I – you just shocked me, it's all.”

 

“Are you certain?”

 

“Yes, I… wasn't expecting that.” _Not from her_ , at the very least, it's what goes unvoiced.

 

Robb's most gentle and ladylike sister, whom he’d assured her would love to meet her, would embrace her as another sister. And she _has_ ; Sansa has made her feel as if she's always belonged here, in Winterfell, with all of them. The complete opposite of her good-sister Arya, who is wild and boyish and nothing at all like Sansa, but who had also welcomed her warmly into their family.

 

_“You're part of our pack now.”_

 

Had the ages been reversed, something like _this_ , Jeyne would've expected to hear from Arya. The offhanded suggestion, as if one were speaking of the weather, would be less scandalous coming from her wild good-sister. But not _Sansa_. So, Jeyne flounders, at a loss for words.

 

“I don't understand.”

 

And perhaps it is her southron upbringing what has her so tongue-tied, but Robb had spoken of how Sansa is the sister who had taken to southron customs with delight. Lady Catelyn had corroborated all of those tales, speaking of her sweet and gentle daughter, ever proper and courteous. If those tales hold any truth, by all means, her ladylike good-sister would die of shame before delivering such advice. Would not _know_ of such matters until _after_ the bedding of her own wedding.

 

But Sansa is neither wedded nor bedded, or even _betrothed_ – yet she speaks as if she _truly_ knows.

 

“Jeyne?” Something must've shown in her face, for Sansa suddenly smiles almost indulgently at her. An odd thing to experience, as she is younger than her. “You were not expecting me to know of those matters.”

 

Her cheeks bloom with heat. “Forgive me, I—”

 

Sansa laughs, a soft, soothing sound that tumbles past her lips. “You would not be wrong, I oughtn’t know such things.”

 

There is not a hint of regret or shame in her demeanor, just a lovely smile and a satisfied glint in her eyes; whomever put those there, Jeyne hopes he is a very brave, very brash, and very skilled swordsman to be able to withstand the King’s wrath. _And Jon's wrath._ She cannot tell which would be more terrifying to witness, cannot dare to guess. Or perhaps she _can_ and is simply afraid to acknowledge the thought circling her head since coming to Winterfell; afraid to put a name to what she's seen lurking on the edges of everyone's sights.

 

_Do not think about it._

 

“But I do know,” says Sansa, bringing her back to the matter at hand, “and I am giving you an idea that might succeed in turning my brother's frown upside down. The Gods know I've had enough practice doing just that with another.”

 

The question comes before Jeyne can properly process it. “With Jon?”

 

The tilt of her mouth is definitely one of amusement. “He seems to have a permanent scowl on his face nowadays, it is truly vexing.”

 

They take the lull in their conversation as an opportunity to go back to their needlework, before Jeyne musters enough courage to bring the topic back to live.

 

“What should I… what should I do then?”

 

Sansa hums, tracing the direwolf she's been stitching. “The godswood will be enough to set a quiet and intimate mood, it's so peaceful. The hot springs… well. You enjoy soaking in the pools, don't you, Jeyne?” Her good-sister does not expect any answer, but she nods nonetheless. “Imagine how much more you'll enjoy them along your husband.”

 

Jeyne pats her burning cheeks and nods once again. _Six-and-ten. I’m taking advice advice on how to bed my husband from an unwedded and younger girl. His sister._ Shaking her head, she decides to ignore that fact, and decides to enjoy the rest of the afternoon.

 

*****

 

She reaches the hallway leading to Robb’s solar just in time to see Jon stepping out o fit.

 

Once he catches sight of her, his permanent frown softens only slightly, before his expression empties of much emotion. _A face that gives nothing away._ “Your Grace,” he says, bowing his head, then there’s something akin to a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as he turns his head a little. “His Grace, Robb of House Stark, the First of his Name, the King in the North and the Trident, will be glad to see you.”

 

His call is loud, and the following clatter from within the solar is probably proof that what Jon tried to do, worked perfectly. Stunned, Jeyne watches him walk away quickly, then turns in time to see her husband yank the doors open.

 

“What—” Robb stops when he sees her, his scowl melting off completely, but ultimately replaced by a tired smile; it is that what she wishes to change tonight. “Jeyne.”

 

“Oh, my love.” She reaches out to brush her thumb over the purplish bruises under his eyes. “Robb…”

 

“I'm well, truly,” he says, and this time, his smile is less of an effort; Robb brings her hands up tomorrow place a kiss on each, and then pulls her into his solar. “I'll be done in a minute, if you don't mind waiting. Then we can…”

 

He grins unabashed, hands trailing down to grab her waist; Jeyne blushes but smiles nonetheless. She knows his words might not come to pass, for one minute lately is usually followed by many more and by the time he falls onto their bed, her husband is already fast asleep. There is really no need to look upon his desk to know what has him so troubled, but Jeyne asks anyway.

 

“How many?”

 

His shoulders drop, and with regret, he pulls away, walking back to his desk. “A dozen,” he says and adds, “and a dozen more asking for Arya.”

 

“Have you told them?”

 

The way he frowns is answer enough. “I don't think I'll consider these. I—”

 

This is nothing new, the struggle that plagues him whenever some Lord—or a dozen of them—sends proposals to the King in the North and the Trident, asking for one of his sisters’ hands in marriage. Robb, after the war that nearly took everyone he loved, as well as Lady Catelyn, has no rush to send the girls away from Winterfell.

 

 _“I just got them back,”_ he'd said, pained, the first time it happened. _“I can't –_ **_my sisters_ ** _, they're Starks, this is where they belong.”_

 

“My love,” she calls, reaching out to grab his hands before he could grab another parchment. “Perhaps we should retire, _now_.”

 

Whatever excuse he thought of, dies before leaving his lips. Robb smirks then, rounds the oak table and comes to stand before her once again; he leans down to place a gentle kiss to her lips, mumbling his acquiescence:

 

“Perhaps we should.”

 

The heat flows through her, rushing – it is only the thought of what's to come, but Jeyne is already breathless and aching.

 

*****

 

The secret to their destination wouldn’t last long, in fact, it lasted near to nothing the moment she lead him away from their chambers. But Robb indulges her, and twines the fingers of their joined hands, bringing it up to press soft kisses to her knuckles, asking softly where they’re going. Jeyne plays along, a whimsy on her part, but – but, there’s been so little joy to be had in the past couple of years that, she thinks, this must certainly be allowed.

 

Grey Wind joins them somewhere while they’re crossing the courtyard, but takes off on his own once they enter the godswood. Robb looks at his retreating silhouette, jaw clenching and eyes clouding, before he snaps out of whatever it is causes him pain, and turns to look at her.

 

“Will you let me love you before the eyes of the Old Gods, my queen?”

 

 _Oh_ , but that grin, it gives her the courage to be _bold_ – she leans forth to nuzzle his cheek and whispers, “ _again_ , my king?”

 

His subsequent growl rumbles deep in his chest; he grabs her hips and pulls her body closer, bringing his lips upon hers with something akin to desperation. Jeyne allows it, _enjoys_ it for several minutes, until they are both panting and trembling for more. Then she pushes gently at his shoulders, tries to keep her wits about her.

 

Robb groans and chases her lips, looking his nineteen years as he pleads with her to kiss him again, but she’s firm in her resolve not to get carried away. _Yet_.

 

“Jeyne…”

 

“I thought—” Words threaten to fail her, but she presses on. “I thought, perhaps – the hot springs.”

 

That grabs his interest. “The hot springs?”

 

“Yes,” she says, cheeks burning even despite her bravery. “We could…”

 

His hands twitch over her hips, his pupils blow wide as he stares intently at her – _that gaze_ , is much the same that had fallen on her the day he’d bursted through the doors of the sept at Lannisport, where she’d been about to be married off to a Lannister. When he’d said, gently, _“I’ve come for my bride,”_ and extended his hand at her. The Young Wolf, the King in the North and the Trident; who despite her poor attempts at seduction, at her mother’s urging, had resisted only so she would not be shamed.

 

It had been honor what made him step away from her, despite the obvious desire; it had been something _else_ what made him return for her, months later.

 

Pressing a feverish kiss to her lips, Robb mumbles, “that sounds lovely,” before sweeping her off her feet, and all but runs across the godswood to the hot springs. The pools are as she remembers them, though Jeyne knows it’s silly to expect them to be different. Even if this visit to the pools feels much too different. _Is it because of Robb? Because I’ve come with my husband?_ It must be. And as he places her feet back on the ground, she knows it is so.

 

Usually, this would be the part where they both rush at each other, undressing with urgence before tumbling onto the bed. But there is no bed to fall upon now, and Robb gives her a lazy smirk as he unlaces his leather doublet and steps out of his boots. Her husband takes his time to undress, until he stands bare before her, and then he jumps into the largest pool – under the steaming water and out, smirk still in place as he stands there, _waiting_. For moments like this, where they can both take the time to actually enjoy the _before_ as well as the act itself.

 

Her cheeks burning bright, yet Jeyne still squares up her shoulders and begins to undo the laces of her own gown; a blessing, that she’d chosen one that laced up at the front. The gown falls around her feet, she bends to untie and take off her own boots; her shift is made of wool and designed for comfort instead of seducing one’s husband, and briefly, Jeyne wonders if she should’ve made a stop by their chambers to change into something more enticing. But then she straightens up and her breath catches in her chest, the blush encompasses her face and quickly travels down her neck.

 

Because the shift—this woolen, entirely _not_ enticing thing—is very loose and well-worn. And it seems to hide little under the sunset light filtering through the treetops. Robb breathes in sharply, tilts his head to the side and sets her heart clattering against her ribcage with just a _look_ ; smouldering, there’s naught but a ring of the blue she loves so in his eyes. Her name comes out as a groan, the shift hits the ground with nary a sound, and once she’s slipped out of her smallclothes, she stands as bare as him.

 

“Jeyne.” Robb licks his lips once before pulling her into the hot pool with him. _“Jeyne, Jeyne, Jeyne,”_ he chants her name in a way that’s reminiscent of the night they’d wed; desperate and filled with _so much longing_.

 

She draws him into a kiss, soft and gentle, but growing in intensity; Jeyne breaks it only briefly, to submerge into the water for a moment, and when she reemerges, Robb’s quick to press their lips back together, delving his tongue past them. His hands move down the slick skin of her back, down, down, _down_ until he’s squeezing her rump, and further still as he encourages her to wrap her legs around his hips. She moans, the feel of his cock rubbing against her making her shudder, heat pooling between her legs as pleasant tingles run throughout her skin. Wrapping her arms about his shoulders, Jeyne knows enough rock her hips _just so_ to have her husband whimpering in her mouth, to have him respond in kind, moving along with her.

 

“Oh…”

 

Robb leaves a burning trail down her neck, kissing his way to her chest, and _there_ – laves attention to her breasts _just_ as he knows she likes it. He runs his tongue over her nipple, alternating between flicking it quickly and rubbing slow; the hand that isn't gripping her hip, encouraging her movements, play with the unattended breast. Giving no rest; he likes to overwhelm her senses, always says he loves to watch her peak.

 

Then he's retracing his movements, dragging his lips up her neck. “Will you let me love you here in the hot pools of the godswood?”

 

Three years, and Jeyne still blushed like an inexperienced maid under the intensity of his gaze, but Robb – _her Robb_ , when he looks like this, wolfish and predatory. _Oh_ , but she can't help it.

 

She nods and gasps, soft and sweet, and her husband nips at her lips; he's pushing slowly into her, she savors the stretch and the feeling of being _complete_. They rock gently in the steaming water, his thrusts unhurried, Robb presses their foreheads together, grinning at her, his eyes bright and devoid of burdens at last.

 

“Robb…”

 

He groans, moves his hands to hold onto her bottom, thrusting harder, pressing closer; their skin is slick enough that they must grab onto each other firmly, lest they lose the rhythm. Jeyne presses her heels to his rump, grinding and looking for that perfect angle that would give her the most pleasure. Robb laughs, breathless, before his chest rumbles with another growl; then he kisses her, scattering her wits to the night, and she knows only him and his touch and lips and the wonderful, _wonderful_ way his cock fits inside her. Her back hits the edge of the pool, giving the support they both need because _it’s been a while_ and Robb is already faltering in his pace, reaching his peak faster than usual; he leans back, amidst her protests, and sets his deep blue on her.

 

A pleasant shiver runs down her spine.

 

“Jeyne,” he whispers, slowing down his movement to a maddening pace. He smirks, teeth showing as a moan tumbles past her lips, as her body quivers and back arches – he keeps rubbing her nub in rapid circles. “Peak for me, _my queen_.”

 

The tension snaps – belatedly, Jeyne will realize she pulls Robb closer to her, hastily, roughly, nails sinking on the skin of his shoulders as her senses are overwhelmed with a never-ending wave of pleasure. She’ll realize her dear husband responded much in kind, letting himself go with a strangled moan and the erratic movements of his hips, his teeth marking the tender skin of her neck. When her blood stops rushing, and she is able to focus again, her eyes take in the sight of her king, panting and chuckling and shuddering still with the aftershocks of their pleasure, free of any worry.

 

“Gods, but I love you,” he says.

 

And _happy_ , so blissfully happy.


End file.
